


Bootblack

by LisaEllyn



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Canon, Angel Castiel, BAMF!Cas, Bisexual Dean, Bootblack!Dean, Bootblacking, Canon Related, Destiel - Freeform, Feelings, First Kiss, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, Happy Ending, Humor, Light Dom/sub, Love, M/M, Masturbation, Men of Letters Bunker, One Shot, Porn, Rough Oral Sex, Smut, Snark, Submission, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-20
Updated: 2016-09-20
Packaged: 2018-08-16 10:43:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8099089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LisaEllyn/pseuds/LisaEllyn
Summary: Castiel stops by the Bunker to find neither Winchester brother at home. After texting Dean he finds an ad for a place called "The Bike Stop," located in Lincoln, while rummaging for something to read -- in Dean's bedroom. It advertises something called a "Bootblack" along with "Gear" and "Leather." Castiel's confused but intrigued. Dean's in Lincoln too. Maybe that's where Dean went. The hunter surely won't mind if the angel goes to meet him.No specific time. Vaguely post-Season 10.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Bootblack - A person who has a passion for, and expertise in caring for leather, including boots.
> 
>  
> 
> 11/26/17 - Added some edits. (The Bunker is in Lebanon, not Lawrence. Oops!)
> 
> 11/18/16 - Minor edits for spelling and grammar

****A lone streetlight half a block away flicks on and off in Castiel’s peripheral vision, irritatingly enough for the angel to notice, but not enough for him to set his Grace to fix it. It isn’t like he needs that light, or any other light source, to pick out the words on the once-crumpled advertisement. He sees the words just fine. It’s just that they _still_ make no sense to the angel.

Looking up, Castiel squints at the small sign on the door directly across the street. Its garish, blinking, red neon text proclaims the establishment to be _The Bike Stop_. The angel tilts his head in confusion. There are no motorcycles or even bicycles in front of the place. There are, however, several humans—almost all of whom are males—walking in and out of the place and they all seem to be clothed in some quantity of leather. Interestingly, Castiel thinks in passing, one of the men is wearing black leather chaps over his jeans. Maybe, Castiel reasons, the “bikes” associated with these people, and this place, are parked behind the establishment, or maybe on the next block.

In any case, the seeming mismatch between the name and the missing vehicles is not of import.  What _is_ important is that this day and time and this place, _The_ _Bike Stop_ , are the details mentioned in the advertisement Castiel found earlier in the novel on Dean’s nightstand.

*****

 _Earlier that evening_ ….

_The angel had stopped by the bunker to see if he could be of assistance either with a case or with any research the Winchesters might have been pursuing.  When he had found neither brother there he texted Dean._

_Castiel (8:42 pm):_ Hello, Dean.

_Castiel had stood by the large table in the War Room waiting for a reply. His phone buzzed soon afterwards._

_Dean (8:44 pm):_ heya cas. what’s up?

 _Castiel (8:45 pm):_ Dean, I am at the bunker. I stopped in to see if you or Sam needed any assistance with cases or with research but neither of you are here. <sad emoji>

_While Castiel waited for Dean to respond he had glanced at the various books and scrolls that littered the room’s surfaces. All were ancient works he had already read to one degree or another._

_Dean (8:50 pm):_ hey, sorry - had to get some stuff from baby. sam is oot. i’m in lincoln doing some stuff but i’m good.

 _Castiel (8:52 pm):_ What is oot? <confused emoji>

 _Dean (8:57 pm):_ lol. out of town. hey cas i gotta go. make yourself at home. don’t wait up <wink emoji>

 _Castiel had smiled at the text, as if Dean stood there in front of him instead of just words on a screen. It had pleased the angel to see “make yourself at home.” Indeed, it had felt like the bunker_ was _home now. Heaven certainly wasn’t._

 _Castiel (9:01 pm):_ Thank you, Dean. And as you know, I don’t require sleep anymore so I will be awake when you arrive. <smile emoji>

_Castiel had then taken Dean’s text at its word and had taken off his trench coat and jacket and loosened his tie. He’d wandered from the War Room to the library looking for something to read, other than centuries old reference books, without any luck. Castiel reminded himself that Dean had said, “make yourself at home,” so he had decided that that meant Dean wouldn’t mind if he looked for a novel in the hunter’s bedroom._

_Castiel had made his way to Dean’s room and had quickly rejected several novels after reading the jacket covers. Then, a book on Dean’s nightstand—something from Kurt Vonnegut—had caught his eye. Castiel picked up the book and a folded piece of paper, presumably used as a bookmark, had fallen to the floor. Grimacing at what he knew would be Dean’s irritation at Castiel for having lost his place in the book, Castiel had picked up the colorful paper and had let his curiosity get the better of him by unfolding the page and reading it. It looked like an advertisement for activities at a place called,_ The Bike Stop _—_

 

_GEAR NIGHT_

_at_

_THE BIKE STOP_

_in Lincoln, NE_

_Every first and third Wednesday of the month_

_Wear your Leather, Rubber, Pup, Military,_

_or any other gear you have for a $10 cover._

_Great beer specials!_

 

**_Featured Wednesday 8/10_ **

**_Bootblack service 9:00 to 12:00_ **

_You have GOT to see this Bootblack to believe his beauty!_

 

 _Castiel had considered the advertisement. The current date was August 10 and this_ Bike Stop _was in Lincoln, right where Dean had said he was “doing some stuff.” Castiel had wondered if maybe Dean would be attending this “Gear Night.” Dean did frequently wear a leather jacket, the angel had reasoned. Maybe that counted as “gear.” Crinkling his brow he had wondered at how someone would_ wear _a “Pup,” which he had assumed to mean a young dog.  He’d also wondered why someone, other than possibly scuba divers, would wear rubber.  He’d been confused… but intrigued as well… and Lincoln wasn’t far from Lebanon._  

_He’d been sure Dean wouldn’t mind Castiel joining him. Dean had always invited Castiel to bars; unless Dean was mad at the angel. But Dean hadn’t been mad at him—recently—so the angel picked the Continental’s keys out of his coat pocket and had made his way to the door._

*****

 

Standing in front of the establishment in question, Castiel is still confused and intrigued. He walks up to the large human male by the Bike Stop door.  The man, whom Castiel assumes is a bouncer, had been staring at Castiel for several minutes—long enough that Castiel knows that Dean would berate the man for staring for so long. Dean has always been very particular about that.

“You lost?” the man asks Castiel as the angel moves closer.

“No, thank you,” he responds. “This is the correct establishment.”

The bouncer rolls his eyes very much like Sam might do and says, “Whatever, dude.” He holds out his palm to Castiel. “Fifteen bucks,” the man says expectantly.

“The ad said ten dollars,” Castiel counters, scrunching his eyebrows in irritation.

The man sighs as if Castiel has caused him great misery. “Only if you’re in _gear_ ,” the man says while looking Castiel up and down, “and you ain’t.”

Still irritated, but undeterred, Castiel fumbles with the money in his pocket—still, after nearly a decade on Earth, uncomfortable with the paper currency. Once he assembles the appropriate amount he glares sharply at the man, thrusts the money into his hand, and opens the door possibly harder than necessary, knocking it into the side of the bouncer’s stool and receiving a scowl in return.

“Apologies,” Castiel mumbles, meaning nothing even _close_ to the sentiment, as he moves into the dim entryway.

Once through the short hall Castiel enters an equally dark main room. Scanning the room quickly he spots a bar as well as a few leather clad and, he quirks an eyebrow in surprise, some almost naked men. Ignoring the lack of patron attire, Castiel reasons that Dean’s most likely location is the bar area—though he doesn’t immediately see him—so he moves in that direction hoping to find the hunter.

As he walks he catches quick movements out of the corner of his eye and off to the left. He’s able to determine immediately that the movement poses no danger but he looks in that direction nonetheless. In one of the many corners architected into the bar a slight man with astonishingly blond hair, pale skin, and jeans pulled down to his knees, kneels in front of a man clad in black leather from head to foot. 

Castiel stops walking and openly stares at the two men. The leather-clad man holds fistfuls of the blond’s hair that he’s clearly using to hold the man’s head still as he drives his hips forward and back, forward and back, increasing in intensity each round.

Dean has often laughed at what he’d considered the angel’s naivety, and Castiel admits there have been some things that have, over the years, come as a shock to him… but he is beyond that now. He knows exactly what’s playing out in front of him and he finds it almost impossible to peel his eyes from the sight—something about it being uncomprehendingly compelling.

Moments pass; his face and ears heat up, and still he stays, rooted to the spot. Eventually he finds the will to look away but he still hears the increasingly loud pleasure-laced moans as the men move inexorably closer to completion.

The raw eroticism of the act rushes through Castiel’s human form and collects in his groin—not a new phenomenon, but one Castiel has rarely experienced. Mostly it occurs when he’s watching the pornography Dean keeps on Sam’s computer. But sometimes… sometimes he lets himself fantasize. And sometimes in those fantasies he imagines the exact act he’s watching… imagines the man who’d kneel in front of him… green, lust-blown eyes staring up at him….

At the sound of a rough gasp and satisfied whimpers from that far corner Castiel snaps out of his internal thoughts. He had let himself fantasize. Again. He shakes his head—as if that can erase the fantasy from his mind forever. He’s tried erasing it before… it has never worked.

Castiel finally makes himself move quickly to the bar where most of the seats are empty and it is quickly apparent that Dean is not there. The angel leans heavily against the worn wooden rail and he must be deep in thought because it takes him a moment to realize the bartender has asked him a question.

“Apologies,” Castiel says, feeling flushed and uncommonly out of sorts. “Can you repeat your question?”

The bartender, a youthful man in extremely tight leather shorts and high lace up boots—and nothing else—laughs lightly and replies, “Oh, honey, you’re a cute one. I _saaaid_ what would you like to drink?”

Castiel stares at the smiling man for a moment. Drink? Oh. Of course… He is at a bar. Drinking is expected. But, the angel reminds himself, that’s not the reason he’s here. “Actually, I’m here for someone—”

“Aren’t we all, honey,” the bartender interrupts with a sigh. “Aren’t we all.”

The angel isn’t sure why the bartender keeps addressing him with an endearment but he ignores it. “What I mean to say is that I’m looking for someone in particular. A man.”

The bartender raises an eyebrow. 

“A specific man,” Castiel rushed to continue. “His name is Dean.”

“Ah. A _specific_ man, huh? Well then honey, have you tried _The Pit_?” The bartender points behind himself and to his left. “This month’s bootblack is drawing practically _everyone_ downstairs.”

Wincing at the name, Castiel assumes it’s the name for The Bike Stop’s basement. “Ah, The Pit.” Castiel sighs. “Of course.”

 

**********

Dean isn’t sure what it is but whenever he sits his ass down on the floor like this, with his supplies in front of him, and a dark room all around him, he slips easily into an agreeable passivity that the hunter would normally shun like a coven of witches. He shakes off the thought of frikkin’ _witches_ because… gross!… and his next customer is sitting down and placing his right boot on the shine box.

Dean smirks to himself as he continues thinking about the feeling he gets when he’s bootblacking. Who does Dean think he’s kidding? He knows _exactly_ what it is—why he gets like this. It feels so fucking _good_ to let go… to not have to _think_ or make decisions… even if only for a few hours.

He takes a deep breath and feels his shoulders relax even more than they did at the start of this gig a couple of hours ago. He feels great. Fucking fantastic, actually. His back will hurt tomorrow but it’s so, _so_ worth it.

As the guy in front of him gets comfortable in the chair Dean looks over the newcomer’s boots. Dean has always wanted a pair of boots like these. They sure were beat to shit though. His practiced eye immediately picks up scuffs and worn down leather not only on the toe cap but also on the counter and upper shaft—Heh, _shaft_ —He’s definitely gonna let the conditioner soak in big time for these things.

From his place on the floor Dean smiles up at the stranger and takes in what he’s learned over the last few months is the stereotypical garb of a Dom in the Leather Scene. The man’s groomed scruff looks like it’s just turning slightly grey, and it’s a good look on him. He’s sporting a peaked, military-style hat and a leather-collared shirt paired with camouflage pants that are neatly tucked into the boots in question.

Dean lightly caresses the boot resting on the stand. “These are wonderful boots. Corcoran’s, right, sir?”

He hasn’t been doing this for too long, and he hasn’t really been able to get onto Sam’s laptop enough to do much research but he’s pretty sure these are Corcoran’s. And the style is nothing short of smokin’ hot… times twelve!

Laughing quick and deep, the man says, “Yep. Corcoran Jump Boots. I love these old things. I should definitely take better care of them though.” He looks at Dean with a pointed, but mischievous smirk. “I hope that’s where you come in, youngster.”

“Absolutely, sir! I’m at your service,” Dean says as he lets his smile widen. Damn! He loves this banter. The flirting is so freeing!

He reaches into his box of shoe goodies and pulls out some tins and rags. “I’d like to use saddle soap to give the boots a good cleaning, some natural conditioner, and finally some black wax polish for a high shine… if all that is okay with you, sir?”

“Sounds good, son.” The guy tips the brim of his hat back in a way that reminds Dean slightly of Bobby which makes him feel wistful for a moment. Then the older man gets a glint in his smiling eyes and slowly pushes the shine box, with his boot on it, _juuuust_ up to Dean’s crotch without actually touching it. “Well, okay then,” he says. “Get to it.”

Groaning internally, Dean totally takes back the Bobby comparison before he leans in and happily gets to work.

 

**********

The Pit is just as dark as the main level but the smell is sharper—a stronger dose of sweat and… ejaculate. Castiel glances around quickly, not wanting to fall into the same situation as he did earlier where he felt very much like a voyeur… visually trespassing where he wasn’t wanted.

While he sees a few patrons coupling in corners here and there, no one is… there is no blatant sex currently on this floor. In general there are two rather large gatherings; one along the bar and one directly across from the stairs and several paces away from Castiel. In that location there are eight men—no… make that seven men and one woman—encircling another man who kneels in the center.

 _Oh_. Kneeling—Castiel immediately turns away assuming, with reason, that kneeling signifies a sex act, and again, he does _not_ want—

And then he hears Dean’s voice and quickly turns back around.

For the briefest of moments he feels a sense of… relief?…calm?… as it washes over him because Dean is, indeed, in this bar. But that positive feeling shatters as he realizes that it’s _Dean_ kneeling in front of all those others—with all of their heavy leathers and large hands and protruding crotches! It’s all the angel can do not to rush into the circle and pull Dean to his feet, asking the man his purpose.

But, he thinks through his angry haze… he knows Dean’s purpose, doesn’t he?

This is a club that obviously welcomes open sexual encounters. Maybe this is how Dean “winds down” from a hunt. Castiel should go. He shouldn’t intrude on Dean here. Dean wouldn’t want Castiel to see….

But… there are _so_ _many_ people around the hunter. Maybe Castiel should stay… just for a while… and out of sight… just in case Dean needs him. Yes, that’s what he’ll do. He’ll just—

“I’d like to use saddle soap to give the boots a good cleaning, some conditioner….” Castiel hears Dean’s voice again.

A strong, older, male voice answers Dean. “Sounds good, son,” then there’s some shuffling before the man adds, “Well, okay then. Get to it.”

The angel looks back at the circle and spots Dean, partially obscured and with his back to Castiel. Cautiously, like he might fall into a trap his mind has set for himself, the angel lets himself analyze the exchange between Dean and the older man and—he releases a breath he hadn’t realized his human form had been holding—the exchange did not sound sexual in nature. If anything, Castiel infers, it sounded like a discussion regarding… cleaning.

To get a clearer view of just what’s going on in front of him Castiel takes a couple more hesitant steps forward. From there he sees Dean as the man sits cross legged on the floor, surrounded by what looks like well used tins, rags, and brushes. The hunter lacks his usual clothing layers—wearing only a black tee-shirt, stained and ripped jeans, and extremely shiny black boots. He’s also donned white plastic gloves that are covered in black stain. There’s a long smear of stain along Dean’s left arm that Castiel feels almost compelled to rub away. It is too close to Castiel’s long gone handprint.

As the angel watches, Dean dips a small wet brush into a tin and applies the substance to the man’s right boot. The hunter rubs the brush across the surface vigorously and it builds into a wet frothy mix. Bent over his work as Dean is, Castiel can't see the hunter’s face. Nevertheless, the angel knows that Dean’s posture is one not so much of concentration as one of calm routine; similar to when the Winchester boys fill salt rounds. Repetitive. Known. Almost meditative—though Dean would never admit to the last one.

As Dean moves on from what must have been the cleaning phase to applying what must be the conditioner, the angel recognizes that the hunter must follow these same steps, perform these same actions, over and over, to lead him to behave in this… serene manner.

Castiel’s eyes widen as the realization makes itself known; Dean has done this before. Frequently.

But it confuses the angel immensely. He doesn’t see any connection that allows him to fit this behavior in amongst Dean’s other frequent behaviors. He runs each new point in turn through his head; coming to a sex club—one decidedly male in nature, sitting in front of several men in what can only be seen as a submissive position, polishing their boots, and doing all of this very likely on a frequent basis…. It simply bears no resemblance to any of Dean’s other activities.

As all of these thoughts race through his head Castiel realizes he must not have been paying attention to what has been playing out in front of him. Dean has moved on to polishing the boots with a black waxy paste and a brush, and Castiel has to admit…  the boots look exceptional. Which prompts the angel to look down at his own shoes. They’re… utilitarian. Somewhat scuffed, and maybe a bit dry looking, but certainly serviceable and practical. Maybe Dean would—

“Excellent work, young man!” Castiel’s thoughts are interrupted as the man addresses Dean. “These boots didn’t even look this good the day I bought ‘em!”

Castiel recognizes now that _Dean_ is the Bootblack the Bike Stop mentioned in its advertisement. As the angel watches another man take a seat in front of Dean he makes a mental note to perform further research on the term.

 

**********

Dean’s lost count of the number of customers he’s had tonight. He thinks it’s gotta be somewhere north of twenty by now. He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand for the umpteenth time as he prepares for the next person taking a seat in the chair.

Dean finishes shuffling around the polish tins and brushes he’d pulled out throughout the night—he likes organized, if not clean workspaces—before he looks up at the guy making himself comfortable above him.

He gives the guy a nice smile as he takes in the man’s features. Not bad, he thinks. The guy’s a pretty good looking dude. He’s got a square jaw and almost jet-black hair, and Dean can’t tell for sure but he’s pretty sure the guy has blue eyes too. Yeah... definitely his type. He smiles even brighter, staring briefly at the newcomer. God, he _loves_ this bootblacking shit! 

Then the guy has to go and open his mouth.

“Hey, _boy_. I don’t got all night waitin’ on ya here.” Dean is stunned for a second, and there isn’t much that stuns a frikkin’ hunter for fuck’s sake, so that’s saying something.

As Dean watches, the dude splays his legs wide, showing off what might otherwise have been an interesting view, but is now as appealing as cozying up to a Rugaru.

“How about you put your hands to work on my boots,” the dude drawls, “and maybe later I’ll let you put your mouth to even better use.”

Dean looks around like maybe he’s being punk’d because seriously… no, just… _seriously_? This guy has _got_ to be kidding. A couple of guys at the bar turn around to stare, hard, but the guy just goes on completely unaware that he’s making a no-holds-barred ass of himself.

But Dean is surprisingly cool about the whole thing. After a couple of hours shining kick-ass leather boots Dean is in too good of a mood to get his back up so he’s willing to play along with the bozo to see if the dude straightens out. Heh. _Straightens_ out. So Dean looks up with like _Sammy_ -levels of patience and says, “That’s some great Dom stuff you got there, sir…. So, how can I be of service today?”

“Where you from, _boy_?” The man leans in and sneers sideways like one of those old time dastardly villains on a _TV Land_ show.

And yup—goddammit!—the douche’s eyes _are_ blue. What a fucking waste of a great color. “Well, now _friend_ ,” Dean answers, knowing he sounds like he wants to kick the guy’s teeth in, “I don’t normally say where—”

Then the guy—rapidly approaching _Gabriel_ levels of dick-baggery—cuts him off. “Where did you learn to look your _superior_ in the eye, _boy_? Fucking novice! If my boots didn’t need polishing as bad as you apparently need a whipping I wouldn't be wasting my time with you.”

More malevolence pours off this guy, Dean thinks, than some of the literal monsters Dean has faced. He’s thinking about how he can handle this while still remaining in the club’s good graces when the man quickly maneuvers his right leg around the shoe shine box and plants the sole of his boot firmly on Dean’s crotch.

Besides the fact it hurt—and not in a good way—the guy fucking _touched_ him without checking to see if it was okay to do so. _Fuck. That!_

Dean feels his teeth grind when he says, staccato and with venom, “Get. Your. Boot. Off. Me. _Now_.”

“Come on, don’t bullshit me,” the asshole says. “You know you want this. Why else would you be down there… on your knees… in front of all of us  _men_?” The man attempts to hook his other leg behind Dean’s calf while pressing harder with his boot but he stops suddenly.

Out of nowhere comes a voice Dean would recognize anywhere. “The man said to _get off_.”

Dean swivels his head around, surprised as fuck to see Cas advancing behind him.

“I believe,” Castiel continues in his smitey voice, eyes never leaving the asshole’s face, “that the Bootblack is giving you the _opposite_ of consent.” Dean shivers pleasantly at Cas calling him a Bootblack.

Then the dope, who’s still sitting in Dean’s chair, makes to stand as he blusters at the angel, “Who the fuck are _you_ , asshole?”

Oh, _Hell_ no. _That’s_ where Dean draws the line. Only _Dean_ is allowed to bluster at Cas!

Dean bolts up from his seated position and throws his arm out to hold the asshat back. “Back off dickface! If you can’t play by the rules then you forfeit your shine. I mean, seriously, I've never encountered—”

Dickface promptly interrupts him. “Who the hell are you ca—”

Cas takes a step forward which, props to the dope, shuts him up quickly.

“As I was saying,” Dean continues, “I've never encountered such bad Dom behavior as yours in my entire friggin’ life! And a good chunk of that was in _Hell_!” The dude looks at Dean like he’s got two heads. Well, heh, he _does_ , but this guy will never see the other one. “Now get the fuck out of here and go Google ‘Dom etiquette’ or something.”

The guy works himself up so much he looks like he’s gonna blow ten gaskets but he stays seated in Dean’s chair—Really?—So, as if they planned it, both Dean and Castiel take one menacing step each towards the guy and the dumbass obviously cuts his losses, mumbles something about ungrateful _boys_ or some shit and bullies his way through the crowd towards the stairs.

After watching the pissant leave Dean looks around the room… pretty much anywhere but at Cas. There’s still a few guys standing around, staring, and obviously they’ve watched the big gay drama go down. Wonderful.

Dean looks up at the mirror clock, barely noticing the lightning-like crack running diagonally from its two to its seven. It’s close to knockoff time so Dean puts on his thousand-watt smile and says to those still milling by his chair, “Hey fellas… that’s it for tonight. I’ll—” He darts his eyes back over to Cas and the rest of his words stumble out as he stares into those piercing blues. “Um… I should… I’ll be back next month so, uh, yeah… I hope to see you all then.”

After that he doesn’t notice if the guys continue standing around, if they walk away, or if they poof off in columns of black smoke. He just stands there dumbfounded that his—dammit!— _the_ angel is standing there, in the frikkin’ _Pit_ of all places.

“Cas?” he asks. “What are you doing here? How did you find me?”

The hunter considers his words for a moment before trying to correct himself, feeling his cheeks burn as his words stumble out all over themselves. “You _are_ here to find me, right? I mean you’re not here, uh, you know, for _you_ , are you? I _mean_ of course you _can_ be here for you. I’m not judging—” Oh my God, he thinks, as he wishes for a monster of the week to suddenly appear and put him out of his misery. His word vomit is worse than literal _vomit,_ vomit.

Cas, the angel he obviously is, saves him from potential monsters and from puking more stupid syllables. “I know what you mean, Dean, and yes, I came here to find you.”

The angel looks down, as if he’s _embarrassed_ about something, which… _what_? There isn’t much that embarrasses Castiel.

Cas looks back up at Dean. “What I mean to say is, I found the advertisement for this… establishment… in the novel on your nightstand and became curious and I did not believe you would mind so—”

“On my nightstand?” Dean interrupts, not caring to hide the incredulous tone his voice puts out.

“Dean,” Cas says, reaching Irritable-Angel-of-the-Lord level at Mach 5 speed, “you _said_ to make myself at home. All of the books in the library are ancient tomes and I wanted something ‘light,’” he says with his inevitable air quotes and a quickly rising voice, “and again, Dean, you _did_ say to make myself at—”

“Okay, Cas. Okay. I got it. I got it. Chill your angel-ass out.” Dean shushes the angel with the universal keep quiet sign of his index finger in front of his pursed lips, which holy shit, Cas actually understands. Dean literally hears the angel’s jaw click as he clamps it shut.

“Okay, Cas,” Dean repeats as he runs his hand across the back of his sweaty neck. “Just… can you… uh, how about you help me shlep all this shit back to Baby and we’ll talk about this at home.”

And as soon as the last word is out of Dean’s mouth he begins to freak out internally. What the _Hell_ is he even thinking? Cas isn’t gonna wanna go back to the bunker _now_. He’s already irritated at Dean and probably weirded out by this place or by Dean even _being_ here—

“Of course, Dean.”

Well.

Okay, then.

Dean furtively watches as his—dammit, again! _The_!—angel bends down to pick up the hunter’s footstool and his box of shoe product before shuffling over to give Dean room to pick up the rest.

Jesus H. Christ on a Cracker, Dean yells at himself internally. Just _what_ is he going to tell Cas about why he’s here? He picks up the rest of his crap, leads the way to the back door, and ignores the idiot part of his brain that tells him maybe he should tell Cas the truth.

 

**********

Dean snags a couple of beers out of the fridge and chugs half of one down before he even gets to the library. He needs alcohol for this discussion.

Cas, of course, gets the first question in before Dean even fully crosses the library threshold.

“Do you only shine boots or do you shine other items as well?”

The hunter takes a deep breath and hopes all of Cas’ questions will be this easy to answer. Yeah, sure. As _if_ his life were that lucky. 

“It’s boots for the most part,” he answers, handing the full beer bottle to Cas before turning around and plopping down onto one of the crappy chairs. He has to get these things restuffed, he thinks in passing. “But,” he continues, “I’ve also conditioned a couple of leather vests and this one guy had these amazing wingtips once. They were shoes, obviously, but they were beautiful. You could tell the guy really cared about them.” Dean smiles to himself remembering the shoes, and the banter, that day outside of Dallas. The case had been quick, Sam had gotten lucky (go Sam!), and Cas was off “finding God.” Dean had pulled up to the place he’d visited before… kit in hand and a smile from ear to ear.

“You love doing this don’t you, Dean?”

Dean shakes himself out of his musings. Okay. So this one isn’t as easy to answer, but it’s doable. “Uh… _love_ is a really strong word, Cas. I mean, I don't know if I _love_ it.” Dean can’t help the smile that springs unbidden on to his face though, so he adds, “But I definitely like it a lot.”

There’s hardly any space between Dean’s answer and Cas’ next question. “Do you do it for others because you don’t have enough leather of your own to maintain?”

 _Ruh, roh._ Cas has gotten to the ‘why’ question already. A trickle of sweat makes its way down between Dean’s shoulder blades.

“Um, well… shit, Cas… no… that’s not the only reason.” He tries to keep the irritation out of his voice but he knows it’s there. And for the life of him he can’t remember why he’s allowing himself to answer these questions. (And, fuck it all to Hell, he has _no_ idea when _that_ became the $24,000 question instead of why he's allowing Cas to even _ask_ them.)

Ignoring his inner arguing he continues. “There’s this, I don’t know, this… service aspect to it or something. I just like to, I dunno, _service_ … or something!” Holy shit, Dean groans internally and says to himself sarcastically, _that_ came out without innuendo slopped all over it… you fucking idiot.

Castiel stares at him for a long moment before nodding his head as if he understands. Good. Maybe he’ll explain it to Dean.

“Do you ever do it anywhere other than The Bike Stop?” Cas asks, which causes Dean to drop his beer bottle—spilling literally nothing because Dean has already practically mainlined its contents. Okay. Maybe it really is _way_ past time to rein this in. It can't go anywhere good. “Seriously, Cas… what’s with the God-damned twenty questions, huh? There’s nothing wrong with bootblacking you know. Can’t I fucking take a few hours—”

“Dean!” Castiel growls, cutting Dean off. Anger causes the angel’s blue eyes to turn dark and icy. “I never said there was anything wrong with it. _You_ said we could talk about this and I’m just trying to understand what it is about it that you enjoy.”

The angel sighs deeply and when he speaks again he sounds defeated, and there’s no way Dean wanted that to happen. “Never mind, Dean. I will give you the space you obviously want right now.” And just like that, Cas is gone.

Thank frikkin’ God Cas isn't  _gone,_ gone, thinks Dean. The angel can't just flit off anymore, but he can definitely _drive_ off in that uglymobile. And—dammit!—Dean is just so _fucking_ tired of seeing Castiel leave and not knowing when or—for fuck’s sake— _if_ he’ll ever see the angel again. So Dean hustles his ass out of the library and thankfully finds Cas in what's been passing as the bunker’s Family Room. Cas is facing the TV and fiddling with the remote. The Netflix splash screen comes on as Dean works hard to find his balls.

“Cas. I… uh”—Jesus, Winchester! Come on!—”Shit, Cas, I… I didn’t mean that. I just mean… Jesus… I mean I never talked about this stuff before, that’s all.”

Cas mutes the TV and turns to face Dean as the hunter continues. “I, uh… I like the feeling of doing stuff for other people.”

Dean fidgets, knowing he’s still trying to take the easy way out. He gets up, paces, picks up a book, puts it down. All the while Cas lets him be… lets him work up to his grown up, _feelings_ -laced words. Sam would fart rainbows if he were here right now.

Dean looks back at Cas and something finally seems to sink in. This is _Cas_ … the one being Dean knows he can trust with his life… with _Sammy’s_ life for God’s sake! Dean can trust the angel with anything. Even, or maybe especially, embarrassing secrets.

So, eventually, Dean says, “No, that’s not it. It’s… more that I like doing stuff people tell me to do. I… um… I like it when people… um… not when they _force_ me… but when they _command_ me.”

Castiel raises a questioning eyebrow, as if the bastard doesn’t _know_ Dean means being told what to do in _specific, controlled situations_ —and during an apocalypse _doesn't count_ —so Dean retorts Cas’ eyebrow with, “Yeah, whatever, Mr. ‘I’ll-do-it-my-way-even-if-it-means-Leviathans’ Castiel.”

Castiel stares smitey daggers at Dean but thankfully doesn’t, in fact, smite the hunter or leave the bunker, so… Win!

Dean continues quickly so Castiel doesn't have time for second thoughts on comebacks or smitings. “So, anyway… yeah, I like it when, um… when… people sort of make me do things. Well, not _make_ me, make me but you know… just… Jesus! I don’t know how—”

“You like to submit to someone else's will,” Castiel interrupts, and man, Dean shouldn’t be as thankful that Cas gets him like this, but… Dean is thankful; because Cas _does_ get it. The angel completely understands him. And that’s as liberating as it is fucking climb-the-walls scary.

“I. Yeah, Cas. That’s _exactly_ it,” Dean mumbles as he rubs the back of his neck. “And bootblacking is perfect for that. I get to touch amazingly fine leather, I get to offer this service that I know I’m damn good at, and it has _nothing_ to do with ganking anything supernatural,” Dean says with a blast of anger at his life. He pauses and collects the last bits of his thoughts before finishing. “It, uh… it’s a few hours a month where it… uh… where I feel good. And I… uh… I feel good about _myself_.”

Whew, Dean thinks, that last bit was rough, but it was true, so whatever. He’s startled when he looks up because when did the angel get within inches of where Dean stands? So much for those old “personal space” lessons.

Cas tilts his head in that Goddamned adorable—Did he say ‘adorable?’ Ha! He meant irritating!—in that irritating way of his.

“But why The Bike Stop, Dean?” asks the angel. “What is it about that place versus a bar that doesn’t court… open sex acts, or what about the shoe shine profession itself?” Castiel has tilted his head almost fully to the side by the time he finishes his question. Apparently this is quite a puzzle for the angel.

As he tries to think of an answer Dean wonders how he got here—sitting in front of his best friend, talking about leather bars and kinks instead of just brushing the angel off and telling him to mind his own business. Maybe it had something to do with all of the flirting tonight. Or maybe it was just that he’s been giddy ever since Cas showed up and acted all BAMF at the bar. Whatever it is, Dean is apparently going to look into those ridiculous blue eyes and answer the angel… truthfully.

“Because it _is_ about the sex, Cas.” He really doesn’t want to see disgust or pity on his best friend’s face so Dean paces across the room before letting the rest of his words barge out like they’ve been locked inside his chest for years. Which, yeah… they probably have been.

“It’s exciting… in… well… in a sexual way. To be kneeling there in front of a guy _knowing_ what he’s thinking. Knowing that while I’m massaging a guy’s boots it’s really superficial or analogous or some fancy word shit because he and I are both thinking that it’s something _else_ I could be massaging… even if it’s all just for fun, just for the excitement and flirting aspect and nothing ever goes further. It’s still enough to…uh, keep me…uh, _excited_ the whole time I’m sitting there.”

Although he doesn’t remember doing it, at some point Dean must have turned back towards Castiel, so he looks the angel in the eyes as he says, “When they tell me in no uncertain terms what they want me to do… and sometimes, when their eyes shine with this glazed over lust… it’s just… it’s not only exciting. It, uh… it makes me feel… um… wanted, I guess.”

Cas hasn’t moved from where he stood when Dean started his whole speech. He looks at Dean now and whispers, “Have you… have any of the men….” Castiel lets the words die out as he turns away.

Dean is pretty sure he knows what Cas was about to ask but… _why_? What is the angel trying to get at?

Carefully, Dean asks, “Have any of the men what, Cas?”

Castiel’s back remains turned as he tries again. “Have any of the men”—his voice cracks and it sounds raw—”Have any of the men… taken you to bed?”

And, yup, that’s _exactly_ what Dean thought Cas was going to ask. He’s asking if Dean is gay. Dean’s heart pounds away in his chest. He’s never told anyone…  barely even let himself know it before a few months ago.

Scraping his fingers down his face Dean sighs long and loud. He admits it _is_ kind of incriminating… sitting in the basement of a gay bar that reeked of sex, surrounded by men in leather sporting hard-ons, and playing with their boots. 

So…

“Yes,” Dean says, but he hurries to finish when he sees Cas drop his head and clench his fists, obviously upset, “But, not for a long time, Cas. I wouldn’t as the Mark got worse and with the Darkness, there just wasn’t…. So not for well over a year. And even before that it wasn’t… I didn’t let anyone… we didn’t—”

Castiel turns back around, his face a mask of controlled anger. “You didn’t copulate,” he finishes for the hunter.

Dean snorts out a half laugh. “Right. That. We didn’t _copulate_. But I don’t get it, Cas. What’s the big deal? I know you’re not a homophobe or _bi-phobe_ or whatever, so why do you look like you’re Darth Vader about to gank Obi-Wan Kenobi right now?”

Castiel stalks right up into Dean’s space again, this time grabbing Dean’s biceps painfully. “Because, Dean Winchester,” he growls, “it should have been _me_ in that chair tonight.”

 

**********

Castiel is at a loss. How could this extraordinarily intelligent man be so infuriatingly stupid at the same time! The angel wishes it didn’t take an entire liquor store to get himself drunk. He could use the escape right now.

“Cas.” The hunter doesn’t look like he’s sure of what to ask next. He’s opened and closed his mouth several times yet nothing comes out. He has also looked down at Castiel’s shoes once or twice in the last few moments.

Stupid, _stupid_ man!

“Cas, what do you—”

Castiel interrupts Dean, saying, “Dean. I didn’t realize it at the time…or maybe I didn’t let myself realize it… but I went to that club this evening to see you. Because I missed you. Because I missed you… more than a friend should miss another friend.”

Dean’s eyes widen with what the angel guesses is shock but he plunges on. “You have always been so adamantly heterosexual, almost militantly so… and I’ve known for so long that I picked the wrong vessel—”

“Cas—”

“No. Let me finish, Dean.” Castiel loosens his hold on the man’s biceps and moves his hands instead to the other’s shoulders. “I’ve felt for years that if I had picked a female vessel then I would have…  that I would have had a chance with you, Dean.”

“Cas, please, let—”

Castiel talks over the man’s intrusion. “But then, Dean, I saw you tonight in what I realize now is a gay men’s bar. And you were kneeling in front of so many men, and on the main floor I had just seen one man on his knees, pleasuring another man orally, and…  I…  I became so _jealous_ , Dean.”

The angel looks away from his hunter. “I became so jealous that those men could entice you to kneel in front of them, entice you to touch them… in a sexually suggestive way, as you’ve verified just now. And I don’t understand why it can’t be me. Why _I_ can’t be in that chair… seeing you in front of me, smiling up at me… giving to me what you gave to those men.”

 

**********

Dean is shell-shocked. Completely astonished by Cas’ words—his feelings! They have just ripped right through Dean’s chest and have torn at his heart so that the walls he’s built up, protecting himself from his own feelings about the angel, burn to nothing, as if they weren’t built with the finest of Winchester Denial available.

It’s Dean’s turn to grab his—yes, HIS!—angel’s arms to get the celestial being to look at him. “Cas, man. Look at me.”

Cas continues to look down, maybe, ironically, looking at his shoes. And that gives Dean an idea.

Slowly—seriously, he’s not young anymore—Dean lowers himself to his knees, waiting and watching the whole time for his angel to look back at Dean. When he finally does, Dean smiles at him with the most radiant smile he can muster, hands moving millimeters at a time, hovering over Castiel’s leather shoes.

Castiel looks stunned, but in a happy way, like maybe he just heard from God directly or something. (Yeah, so apparently Dean’s okay with comparing himself on his knees to God in Cas’ ear. Whatever.)

Dean looks down and tentatively traces the tips of his fingers over the top of Cas’ shoes. He’s looking at the shoes but he’s thinking about the bare skin underneath. His eyebrows raise at the thought that he wouldn’t mind kissing up and down the angel’s feet—a newly realized, but not unwelcome kink.

Rubbing at Cas’ shoes, as if giving them a clothed massage, Dean looks up at Cas to gauge his expression. The angel stares longingly at Dean, giving Dean the confidence to softly trail his hands up towards the angel’s knees. They are barely-there touches and Dean watches as Cas’ breath hitches at his touch.

“Cas. I’ve wanted you… needed you… for so long. But I never thought you would want me back. I never thought…. You’re an _angel_ , Cas!… I just never thought….” Dean breathes the words out on a wave of overwhelming desire for the being in front of him. “And now, here you are, sexier than anyone has any right to be, telling me you were jealous of those men… over _me_? Cas… my God, I want… want so bad—”

“As do I, Dean.” Cas sounds wrecked. “ _Please_. I want your… I want _everything_ , Dean. Everything you’re willing to give me.”

And Dean wants to give everything. So he leans in slowly—so slowly, towards the angel’s center—towards that irresistible bulge in Castiel’s pants.

The angel’s eyes burn like blue fire. He slants his fingers into Dean’s hair, pulling, just rough enough, while moving Dean’s head forward, inexorably.

Dean whines—there’s no other word for it—as his open mouth touches Cas’ bulge through the angel’s slacks. He mouths over it, sloppy and greedy.

Cas stands unmoving, as if mesmerized, staring down at Dean. “So long, Dean… I’ve wanted you for so long.”

Dean whimpers again into the cloth before forcing himself to pull back and look up into his angel’s eyes. He puts his hands on Cas’ belt buckle, looking for permission which Cas gives by placing his own hands over Dean’s, guiding him into unbuckling, unbuttoning, and unzipping.

Dean stands, not knowing how his knees don’t buckle from the sheer force of want sluicing through his body. He looks at the wrecked angel, staring, just as they both have done for ages.

As if he can’t hold back any longer Cas lunges his mouth forward, capturing Dean’s in a perfectly imperfect kiss. It’s all saliva and tongues and open mouths, and Dean couldn’t have asked for anything better in a first kiss.

Dean pulls back to look into Cas’ eyes and as he does, he pushes against the angel, groin first, causing them both to cry out.

Cas looks like he’s on fire as he ruts desperately against Dean, taking, and taking more, as he grabs at Dean’s ass, pulling him in forcefully, closing his eyes against the pleasure.

“Cas, God, I want to taste you so fucking bad… want to be on my knees—”

Cas moans, “Oh, Dean,” before he slowly but intently pushes the man down by a shoulder while dexterously pulling himself out with his other hand.  Once his cock is free the angel moves a hand to cling to the short hairs at the back of Dean’s neck, pulling the man forward as he holds his cock up for Dean to take… not forcing, but not tentative either.

Dean opens for Cas, sticking his tongue out to lap at the head, pulling a hiss from the angel that sounds like it comes from his very core. Dean lets Cas pull him forward, but the angel does so slowly, letting Dean adjust. It’s been a very long time, and Cas is larger than average.

“Dean. Your… your _mouth_. It is Heaven itself.” He pushes in further before pulling out slightly to push back in, harder, both hands flexing in Dean’s hair.

Dean groans at the pure _hot_ of it all, almost unable to believe he has Cas’ cock in his mouth. He groans again and Cas jolts forward, probably unable to do anything else from the pure glory of the vibrations. He stops, momentarily, as if he’s unsure if the thrust was too much for Dean but almost immediately the angel thrusts in again. It’s rough but it’s also everything Dean has ever wanted and he knows the angel won’t hurt him… would never hurt him again.

Dean’s eyes pierce into Cas’s as he pushes himself forward, impaling his mouth, deeper, deeper until Cas’ length touches his throat. He lets go of Cas’ thighs and places his hands limply on his own jeans, signalling his full submission to Cas’ thrusts.

Cas growls, “Dean,” as he stabs in then out, once, twice… then in a punishing pace, taking and taking and _taking_.

“ _Deeeean_ ,” the angel moans. Dean knows Cas is close and he wants to feel the liquid rush into his mouth… wants to taste it… so he pushes at the angel’s legs, letting Cas know to release some pressure on his head. Cas backs off slightly and Dean suctions hard up the length of Cas’ cock. Cas gasps and then the hunter feels Cas’ length pulse before it explodes bitter liquid across his tongue, down his throat, and--as Cas pulls back, fisting his length--over his lips.

They both moan in unison as Cas comes down from the pleasure. The angel leans over the man at his feet while Dean licks Cas clean. At the same time, Dean pushes the heel of one hand onto his own aching dick, still imprisoned in his jeans. At this point he’s beyond caring if he comes in his jeans as he rubs to relieve the pressure.

Cas steadies himself with his hands on Dean’s shoulders and almost makes the hunter come right then, saying, “Take yourself out, Dean. I want to watch you pleasure yourself... to me... for me.”

Dean half sobs at Cas’ words, all of a sudden needing to come, violently. Cas stands up and Dean kneels there, in front of the angel and opens his fly with a mounting desperation until he finally gets himself in hand. He cries out at the first touch and lasting for more than a few strokes is out of the question. He pulls some of the pre-come, that’s been leaking copiously, down the shaft of his dick, slicking the way and causing Dean’s hips to stutter as he fucks up into his fist.

Castiel reaches out and gently grabs Dean’s hair, angling the man’s head up so they both stare into each other’s eyes. “So beautiful, Dean. So gorgeous like this, and you’re mine.”

And that’s. Just. _It_. Dean roars out his orgasm, painting Cas’ pants, the floor, and Cas’ shoes. He’d closed his eyes at the overwhelming pleasure but he opens them when he feels Cas’ palm gently cupping his jaw. “I mean it, Dean,” says the angel. “You are mine… for as long as you’d like to be.”

Dean lets Cas help him stand on wobbly legs. Stalling for time in order to respond to Cas’ statement, he wonders what Cas would think if Dean suggests a second round. Finally, he lets himself fall into the angel’s embrace and looks into unearthly blue eyes as he says, “I… I need you, Cas. I… dammit… I fucking _love_ you… so, yeah. I’m yours. For as long as you want me.”

When they finally come up for air from the round of kissing that followed their declarations Dean looks down at his own come coating the angel’s leather shoes. Well, _they_ sure need some Bootblack TLC, he thinks, chuckling to himself as he hugs his angel. Maybe he’ll get to it after round two.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! :)


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